


An Assortment of Mindscapes

by MQAnon



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: abstract writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 16:19:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1989564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MQAnon/pseuds/MQAnon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Minds, only broken down and written in turns of phrase and peculiarities of word choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Netwon

The inside of Newts skull is painted in opalescent reams of blue and not-blue, dancing shades and myriad star-spun monuments of ice, captured and frozen and all at once alive and silent, dead, drifting perpetually in the eddies of obsidian thoughts and it’s _so cool just so cool, man,_ because Newt is in _control_ here, all the thoughts are his and only his. This is his landscape where he rules _and boy do I rule I’m king of the world this is my world alight in fucking flames_ , because it’s always burning, burning or burnt and being deconstructed and reconstructed all the time in ghostly breaths of new ideas and new thoughts clicking into place, into blackened blue shells that shimmer in the unreal light that fills it all. The landscape is open and spherical and flat and infinite, an impossibility _because I divide by zero it’s what I do_ and every time, every goddamn time, Newt remembers that it is his and it’s always so beautiful it claws his heart apart.

His mind is everything he wants and nothing, of course it’s nothing, he can never control it but _why would I want to, let it live, let it grow_ , and he doesn’t have to control it to rule it from his perch; a throne, a chair, a towering shrine of ink and instinct, a patch of nothing because Newt is nothing here, of course he is nothing, he doesn’t need a corporal form inside his own head. Every time, every second, it’s different, shifting like snake skin across scalar vectors, logarithms stretching out and up overhead in grasping vines, all of them not-blue _seriously why would logarithms be blue that’s ridiculous_.

In here he can see the flow of his thoughts, the erratic rhythm fluttering like a pulse, pulse, pulse _a heartbeat in my head, dude, that’s what it is,_ tasting of guitar riffs and heavy bass, melodies of matrices and sequenced DNA interwoven throughout in a smoke of science – his safety net and fall-back.

This is Newt’s landscape and he _rules, man, I fucking rule._


	2. Hermann

It’s always been monochrome, somehow; not even stark shades painting contrast against his minds eye but instead the steady, pendulum flow of grey to ash to granite and back again, gilded with ancient gold and burnished copper. It is an antique of a mind, Hermann thinks, but nevertheless it is his, in all its empty, echoed beauty. The floor beneath his feet – _solid feet, here I am whole and have no need for support_ – is an ever-shifting checkerboard, armies of old chess pieces marching to a war of words in two Cartesian planes, the velveteen beat of muffled ivory a dichotomy to the incessant razor-edge click, click, clicking of ceaselessly moving files.

They tower up and out and over and down, at once his walls and ceiling but the walls are so far away that they fade into clouded white, a distant horizon he can never hope to reach but never wants to, keeping to the gold-banded kingdom that he has constructed. Yes he is still close enough to touch them, to run unreal fingers over immaterial objects, but they are both too close and too far, no more than a mental representation of impossibilities, unbalanced infinities made false within his skull. The cabinets are not really cabinets – _They do not need to be, I have no need for physical storage where such physicality is inherently unreal­ –_ but are instead formed of layered equations, sign and magnitude and totals and sums building up and coalescing into something bigger and more wondrous, a storage and stronghold for every thought and memory and moment he wishes to keep.

Hermann has never opened the cabinets - he has no need to. For here, in the haven of his mind, retired thoughts mix with fresh knowledge in a citrine, living mist, intangible even in this intangible space. What files and notes he may need come to him, meeting him where he stands to watch his mind at work.


	3. Kaiju

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gift for alienfirst.tumblr.com

The first touch of the Kaiju was a new colour across his mind, neither blue nor not-blue but something new entirely, unreal and unpleasant and reeking of acrid magpie wings and old, burned ozone and _get it out it’s wrong it’s the wrong blue it shouldn’t be here get it out get it out get it OUT_. It settled into the steel bones that hung, blood-strong, beneath the flat sphere floor, crawling along fissures and tiny cracks of old memories _bad memories go away please go away_ , until it was Newt and Newt was it, logarithm trees sinking and sliding into azure oblivion.

Newt knows it’s affecting his body, hell, he can _see_ it _and damn don’t I look cool I’m fucking badass I’m a fucking monster_ , but in a way this is worse, watching from a disconnected distance as his seat, his throne, his mind _it’s my mind you bastards let it go!_ is slowly consumed, passive entropy in the wrong-blue everywhere and everything. It’s an oil slick across his thoughts, cloying and stifling and Newt can’t _breathe_ , he can’t _think_ but at the same time it’s better than ever, his thoughts now tamed and so easy to access now that they’re just there, just beyond him. He has to catch himself a few times, feeling his incorporeal being _they cannot touch this they cannot touch ME_ drift close, too close, to the surface of wrong-blue raven wings, knowing that if he touches it it will rip away his musical matrices, will rend and split and tear him until every leaf-vein essence has become not-blue, has become _wrong._

The Kaiju in his head is painful in shattered stained glass, beautiful in carnage and destruction.

Newt wants it out. He wants it _gone_.

The Kaiju wants to stay.


	4. Archimedes and Little Wing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by alienfirst.tumblr's Drift and Hivemind AU

**Archimedes**

Her mind is held constant by a spiderweb of infinite numbers, looping around the cerebrum curve of her skull to pattern walls in silver threads, the twist and flow of each perfect, pure number a self-contained rainbow in muted, impossible, monochrome shades. Words don’t work here, not really – instead, they are broken down into their core parts, pitch and tone blending with the rise and fall of first harmonics and fundamental frequencies to create thoughts born of numbers, serenading in woven lambda. She knows her mind holds more colour now than Hermann’s, but it is secondary; an excess layer that skims beneath the tiled, endless floor, formed of impossible triangles of three right angles, curving in on themselves to create a non-existent, open ground. Archimedes can see the stars through it. She can see the stars everywhere.

Here, in this space, her space, the frozen galaxies and celestial orbits are likewise deconstructed, broken down into more waves, pulsars and neutron stars tasting sharp and empty on her tongue. She doesn’t have to walk here, instead letting herself be drifted along on coils of numbers and formulae and Greek letters.

Sometimes, Hermann drifts with her.

**Little Wing**

Little Wing’s mind is spun through and about with gilded light, warm gold tasting of flat, molten honey in the colour cascade landscape, where the trailing threads arc into the distance, reminiscent of distant solar flares and harsh, rough-edged orange light _tastes like fire, like smoke and copper coils_. His landscape is oddly lacking in scenery, in a way – everything is made of warped colour, shades blurring and mixing and contorting to form objects of their own, all brief wisps of smoke that fade and reform as soon as they are made. It is unstable, yes, but beautiful for it, making a land of entropy and hue with the only constant contained within being the golden threads, each one self-contained opalite in a different light _light means colours and colours are thoughts of mine and others_.

Somehow the colours are never discordant, the tones and tastes of each always complimenting and combining perfectly, flawlessly into an intricate concerto painted in dusken purple and ancient blue, dark tones resonating in open, half-clouded velvet skies.

All of Little Wing’s thoughts are colours to him, but he doesn’t mind. And neither does Newt.


	5. Keter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by alienfirst.tumblr's Drift and Hivemind AU

Flashes of burning amber dance and twist in wild skies above and around and between reaching, grasping claws of insidious scarlet, loose-drifting thoughts only half formed before they dissolve and collapse away. There should be noise here, so much noise, but the open plains reside in a ghastly turquoise silence; cloying and unnatural and sinking into flesh and thought, chasing nerves to dull down impulses, stealing the sting in a ruthless cyanide storm.

And yet, the influx is not vicious, is not malevolent. It feels as if it should be, as if every slate-smooth wipe is pulled by some motive, some thought, but instead it just…happens. Uncontrolled, unconstrained and entirely destructive, in entropy born of oblivion. The silence it brings with it is a terrifying lure, at once a promise of ceaseless peace and yet a removal of all self, of every thought and action that draws a mindscape in flawed, living static. But in return, what Keter takes it keeps; warped and empty spaces are repurposed and refilled with stolen electric maelstroms, secreted away in old gold pockets only to be moved, altered, even thrown out into whatever spare minds are close.

There is a reason the Kaiju call Keter ‘Memory Eater’. 


End file.
